The Terror of He Who Falls Asleep
by WinterSky101
Summary: With horrifying images of Savoy flashing before Aramis' eyes even when he's awake, he decides the best course of action to avoid the inevitable nightmares is not to sleep at all until he knows he has it under control. Unfortunately, things don't quite go as planned. Post-1.06 (The Good Soldier).


**This plot bunny has been stuck in my head since I first watched "The Good Soldier," but I never actually got around to writing it until now. Trigger warnings include: sleep deprivation, insomnia, PTSD, nightmares, and hallucinations. If there's anything you think is missing from the list, tell me and I'll add it.**

 **Title comes from this Nietzsche quote: "Do you know the terror of he who falls asleep? To the very toes he is terrified, because the ground gives way under him, and the dream begins."**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own The Musketeers.**

* * *

Marsac is dead in Aramis' arms. Blood still seeps sluggishly from the wound in his chest, the wound Aramis gave him, the wound that killed him. Around them, twenty dead Musketeers lie bleeding in the snow.

 _Why did you survive?_ they ask. _Why didn't you die with us?_

 _I'm sorry,_ Aramis begs. _I'm sorry-_

Marsac's fingers dig into Aramis' shoulder. His eyes are empty. _Sorry isn't good enough,_ he snaps, and he yanks the pauldron off Aramis' shoulder and throws it into the bloodstained snow. The Musketeers around them keep bleeding and Marsac's fingers bite deep enough to draw blood and the snow is more red than white and the pauldron lies abandoned on the ground-

"Aramis!"

Aramis wakes with a start, breathing hard and covered in a sheen of sweat. Athos bangs on his door again. "Aramis!"

Slowly, Aramis gets to his feet and staggers over to the door. His hands are trembling slightly as he opens it. Athos's eyes flicker over him quickly.

"You look horrible," he states bluntly.

"Didn't sleep well," Aramis replies. His voice is hoarse, like he's been screaming. He runs a hand through his hair. "What is it?"

"The Duke of Savoy is leaving today," Athos tells him, and just hearing the name feels like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over Aramis' head.

 _Twenty dead Musketeers, lying in the snow-_

"We don't need to escort him home, do we?" Aramis demands immediately.

Athos shakes his head. "We simply need to stand near the king and look imposing," he replies. "I think that's the extent of our duties today."

The thought of any duties, let alone those that require Aramis to be within a mile's range of the Duke of Savoy, is exhausting. But he is a soldier, and he will act like one. "When do we need to be there?" he asks.

"Soon," Athos replies. "We'll leave once everyone is ready. Be quick."

"I will," Aramis promises, closing the door. His uniform is draped carelessly over a chair. Before he went to bed, he scrubbed all of Marsac's blood off the leather.

His pauldron, when he finally slides it on, feels heavier than normal.

Aramis splashes his face with water, tamps down a wave of nausea at the bloodstained rag that lies next to it ( _Marsac is falling forward in the armory, a bullet through his chest-_ ), and goes out to meet the others. Athos is sitting at the bench, grimly sharpening his sword. He looks up when Aramis approaches.

"The others aren't here yet?" Aramis asks, his voice still somewhat raspy. Athos wordlessly slides a cup of water to him.

"Porthos should be coming soon. D'Artagnan is staying here to help Tréville with some duties."

"I wish I were going with you, though," d'Artagnan groans as he walks over, flopping himself down next to Athos on the bench. "Standing guard is much more fun than cleaning the armory."

Blood roars in Aramis' ears. He's vaguely aware of d'Artagnan yelping, but it sounds as if it's coming from far away. _Marsac falls into his hands and collapses into his lap-_ "Aramis," Athos states firmly. A hand grips Aramis' arm and he slaps at it blindly. "Aramis," Athos repeats, and his voice sounds somewhat closer. The hand on his arm squeezes lightly.

"Let me go," Aramis demands hoarsely.

"Tell me where you are and who I am," Athos replies. Aramis blinks and his vision clears.

"I'm in the garrison," he rasps. "You're Athos. Now let go of me."

Athos does, holding out the cup of water again. Aramis takes a grateful gulp. D'Artagnan, he realizes, is gone.

"He didn't mean it," Athos tells Aramis quietly. "He wasn't thinking."

"He didn't do anything wrong," Aramis murmurs into his cup.

"If you want to talk-" Athos begins, but Aramis sets his cup down on the table with more force than necessary and Athos goes silent.

"I don't want to talk about it," Aramis states, a little embarrassed at his outburst now that he's done it.

Athos studies him for a moment. "Do you want to go to the Wren tonight?" he asks. "We could have a drink or two. I'll pay."

"Maybe some other time," Aramis replies. He doesn't want to be drunk tonight, and he doesn't particularly want company either.

"You look like shit, 'Mis," Porthos remarks as he walks up to Aramis and Athos. Aramis is reassured by his bluntness, the same way he was reassured by Athos' before.

"I didn't have the best night's sleep, but I'll manage," Aramis replies. "Should we be on our way?"

"The king will be waiting," Athos replies, standing. "Let's go."

"'Mis, if you want to talk-" Porthos begins, but Aramis cuts him off before he can continue.

"Athos has already offered, and I declined," he tells Porthos firmly. "I'll be fine." Porthos eyes Aramis unhappily, but he doesn't argue the point. Aramis shrugs off the concern and mounts his horse.

It isn't anything about Athos or Porthos, which he hopes they understand. It has nothing to do with them, and it most certainly doesn't mean that he doesn't trust them. The problem is that Aramis has absolutely no desire to discuss Savoy or Marsac with anyone, because no one else will understand. They have all been in battles and they have all faced their own losses, but neither Athos nor Porthos has ever been in a situation like Savoy, and Aramis can't stand the thought of their fumbled pity.

Athos takes off for the castle and Aramis gallops after him, wishing he can ride hard enough to leave his thoughts behind. But with every moment, he gets closer and closer to the palace and, with it, the Duke of Savoy. Aramis' breath stutters at the very thought of the man.

 _Aramis slices up the back of one of the assailants as his comrades die around him and then a musket stock hits him in the temple and the world goes black-_

"Aramis." Athos' voice is sharp but not unkind. Aramis blinks and the world resolves around him. There's no snow on the ground, no dead Musketeers bleeding out. They're riding through the streets of Paris, nearing the palace.

"Do you really think it was the best idea for the king to choose us to guard him today?" Porthos remarks. "The Duke really hates you, Athos." Aramis bites back a hysterical laugh. If the Duke hates Athos, he would loathe Aramis if he knew.

"Perhaps that's why the king chose us," Athos offers. "He hasn't exactly been discreet about his dislike for Savoy."

"Bunch of bastards," Porthos mutters. "Couldn't pay me enough to make me visit there."

 _They gallop across the border into Savoy, and it's just a training exercise except it's not, and none of them has any idea what's coming-_

Aramis dismounts at the palace in rigid, mechanical movements. He follows Athos and Porthos woodenly and stands where he's directed to stand. He barely remembers anything of the farewell celebrations, to lost in a dizzying vortex of panic and memory. The Duke of Savoy glances at him once and Aramis has to fight to control his heart rate. For the rest of the time, he is as invisible as the king's guards normally are.

"Well, that was pompous," Porthos remarks as they leave the palace after the celebrations. "Glad it's over."

"As am I," Athos replies. "We have the rest of the day off, I believe. Do either of you have any plans?"

"Nothing much," Porthos replies. "What about you, Aramis?"

"I'm going to go back to my room," Aramis replies. His voice doesn't quite sound like his own. "Maybe I can get some more sleep." He doubts it, no matter how exhausted he feels, but if Athos and Porthos think he's getting rest, they'll be less likely to disturb him.

"If you want to talk," Athos begins, and the tenderness is agonizing.

"Right now, I just want to rest," Aramis states, directing his horse back to the garrison and pushing it as fast as it can go. He reaches the garrison in record time and leaves his horse with Jacques. D'Artagnan, he knows, is in the armory. Aramis is equally certain that he cannot enter the armory. Instead, he goes directly upstairs.

For a second, he thinks he feels Tréville's eyes on his back, but Aramis is fairly certain he'll lose any hope of composure if he's alone with Tréville, so he ignores it.

His bed looks welcoming, except for the fact that Aramis knows he won't be able to sleep without nightmares. He cannot relieve Savoy again, not after doing it just a few hours before. He cannot sleep and invite those memories back in.

Until Aramis has banished the ghost of Savoy yet again, it seems he cannot sleep.

And yet Savoy's ghost has always been stubbornly persistent, and he doesn't know if it will allow itself to be banished this time around. Aramis will do his best, but Savoy is proof that his best is not always good enough.

* * *

The effects of the self-imposed sleep deprivation are not kind. Aramis is not unused to sleepless nights, but he normally snatches whatever scraps of sleep he can. Now, he is actively avoiding them.

It has been two days since he shot Marsac. He has not slept in nearly thirty six hours.

"I wish we could tell the king the truth about the assassin who came after the Duke," Aramis hears d'Artagnan mutter to Athos. "Then maybe he'd calm down about his guards." Despite the fact that the assassination attempt was clearly aimed towards the Duke, the king has become paranoid because of it and doubled his guards. All of the Musketeers are feeling the effects of that.

"Hush," Athos tells d'Artagnan, and Aramis can feel eyes on his back. Athos and Porthos have not been subtle about their worry for him. D'Artagnan is stubbornly acting as if everything were normal, which is both a blessing and a curse. Aramis has no desire to be handled with kid gloves, but he does wish d'Artagnan would stop referencing Marsac and Savoy.

"Should we go to the Wren?" Porthos suggests. Aramis knows the suggestion is pointed towards him. Athos and Porthos have both been cloyingly supportive all day.

"Sounds good to me," Athos replies. "Aramis?"

"Not tonight," Aramis says. If he drinks, he's afraid he'll fall asleep, and he's not ready to sleep yet. The memories of Savoy have not yet been locked away, and he can't dream about them again.

"Is there somewhere else you'd rather go?" Athos asks. Aramis shakes his head. Athos murmurs something to Porthos, but Aramis can't concentrate on their words. He's been having trouble concentrating all day and he keeps losing his train of thought. Thus far, it hasn't been noticeable, but he's worried that, if it gets any worse, someone will realize that something's wrong. Aramis has no doubt that the others will try to make him sleep if they find out that he's avoiding it, but he can't let that happen.

"Aramis," Athos states, and the slight irritation in his voice clues Aramis in to the fact that this isn't the first time he's said his name. "We were wondering if you'd wish to come with us to see Constance. D'Artagnan says she's been asking about all of us."

 _"So, Monsieur Marsac, I assume you're a soldier?"_

"Perhaps some other time," Aramis replies, his voice carefully steady. The thought of going into the Bonacieux house isn't as petrifying as going into the armory, but he's not quite ready for it yet.

"Constance will be disappointed," d'Artagnan remarks. "She's asked about you in particular."

"I'm sure she has," Aramis murmurs. He wouldn't be surprised if Constance had been able to see through him the whole time. He's a bit worried that she'll be able to do it again now.

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us-" Athos begins.

"I am," Aramis snaps, not letting Athos finish the sentence. No matter where Athos suggests, Aramis wants to be alone tonight.

Aramis has no doubt that the harshness of his words has only encouraged Athos and Porthos' worry, but he doesn't care. He's exhausted. He wishes that he could sleep, but every time he lets his mind relax, Savoy creeps back in. He can't sleep until Savoy is gone.

 _Twenty dead Musketeers-_

He can't sleep until Savoy is gone.

* * *

Aramis' hands keep trembling. He tears at his bread harshly, trying to mask both the shaking and the fact that he's not eating at all. The slightest hint of food makes his stomach turn.

It has been four days since he shot Marsac. He has not slept in three.

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan asks. Even he has grown worried now. Aramis is glad that he's no longer mentioning Savoy, but the worry is smothering.

"Something wrong?" Aramis asks. He's noticed that his words have begun to slur together sometimes, so he's taken to speaking in short, clipped sentences. The shorter the sentence, the less of a chance for slurring there is.

"Aren't we supposed to go to the palace?" d'Artagnan asks tentatively. Aramis blinks at him, waiting for the suddenly blurry image to resolve itself into clarity again.

"So we are," he states. "I lost track of time." He looks around. "Have Athos and Porthos already left?"

Concern lines d'Artagnan's face. "They're not coming to the palace with us today, remember? They have other duties to attend to." Startlingly, the memory doesn't slide back into place for a long moment. Aramis' memory has been failing him recently, but whenever he's reminded of things, the memories return. This is new.

"Of course they do," Aramis replies. "I don't know what I was thinking." The sentence is a shade too long and the last few words slur into one.

"Aramis, have you been getting enough sleep?" d'Artagnan asks softly. The way he frames the words makes it clear that by "enough" he means "any."

"Don't worry about me, d'Artagnan," Aramis replies, which they both know is far from a yes. Aramis has no doubt that Athos and Porthos will hear about this later, but he can't bring himself to care.

"Aramis," d'Artagnan says, sounding worried, and Aramis opens his eyes. He doesn't remember closing them. "Are you sure you should be on duty?"

"I'm fine," Aramis states emphatically. He reaches for his gun and almost misses it. D'Artagnan is making no attempts to hide the concern on his face.

They pass the Bonacieux house on their way to the palace, which is out of their normal way, but Aramis only realizes that once they're there. "Aramis!" Constance calls. Before Aramis can think to reply, d'Artagnan has already stopped and dismounted. Aramis follows his lead.

"You haven't come to see me," Constance tells Aramis playfully, slapping him lightly. Aramis staggers back half a step and, for a second, worry flitters across Constance's face.

"Oh, how you wound me!" Aramis cries immediately, clutching at the side of his face. If he plays this off, if he acts as if it was merely affected drama, perhaps Constance will not see through whatever shreds of a façade he still has. "Is there any call for such cruel behavior?"

"I've been worried about you!" Constance protests, but there's a smile on her face. Aramis thinks he's fooled her. D'Artagnan looks somewhat relieved as well. Aramis is fairly certain he planned this.

"No need to worry, my dear Madame Bonacieux," Aramis reassures her, bending over and kissing the back of her hand. "I am perfectly alright."

"I'm glad to hear it," Constance tells Aramis warmly. "Can you stay? My husband is out."

"We really should go to the palace," d'Artagnan remarks ruefully.

Constance shoos them away. "Off to work with you," she tells d'Artagnan. "And you," she adds, pointing at Aramis, "don't you dare worry me like that again."

"I shall do my best," Aramis replies, tipping his hat. Constance rolls her eyes as d'Artagnan and Aramis ride off.

"That was nice," d'Artagnan remarks. He looks far less worried than he did before. "It was nice to see Constance."

"Didn't you see her this morning?" Aramis teases. He feels slightly more awake, although that's entirely relative. He wonders how long it'll last.

D'Artagnan blushes. "Well, it's nice to see her anyway," he protests. "And it was nice for you to see her. She's been asking about you a lot."

"I apologize for worrying her," Aramis replies. His concentration slips for a moment and, for half a second, he has no idea what they're talking about. The topic comes back to him quickly.

 _"I assume you're a soldier?"_

Aramis feels the blood drain from his face, but thankfully, d'Artagnan is no longer looking at him. He's lessened d'Artagnan's worry for him; he wants to keep it that way.

He is no better than he was before, but d'Artagnan doesn't need to know that.

* * *

Marsac is watching Aramis from the corner of the room. Aramis blinks furiously, waiting for the image to disappear. He knows it shouldn't be there. He knows it can't be there.

It has been seven days since he shot Marsac. He has not slept in six.

A sudden flood of paranoia convinces Aramis that there's someone in the next room. He knows it's just his brain playing tricks on him, but it feels so real. He can still see Marsac in the corner, even though he knows Marsac is dead. Knowing that it's a hallucination doesn't make it go away.

"Aramis." It takes a second for Aramis to recognize that Porthos is saying his name. When the realization works its way through his sleep deprived brain, Aramis is suddenly struck by a flash of irritation. He knows that all of his mood swings are because he hasn't slept, but it still takes all the concentration he can muster to keep from snapping at Porthos. To be fair, however, he has found himself to be rather short on concentration lately.

"Aramis," Porthos says again, more urgently this time. Aramis blinks and looks up at him. Marsac is smirking in the background.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

Porthos frowns. "Did you see something in the corner?" he asks. Aramis looks over. Marsac is still there, but he's not real. Aramis knows that.

"No," he replies simply. Marsac sidles up to Porthos, leaning on his shoulder. Aramis swallows hard. "There's nothing there."

"'Mis, are you alright?" Porthos asks. Aramis wonders if he looks as ghastly as he feels. He's been avoiding looking in his mirror recently.

"I'm-" Aramis begins, and then a gunshot rings out. It's only when Porthos reacts to it that Aramis realizes that it's not another one of his hallucinations but an actual threat.

Porthos takes off down the hall. Aramis follows him and is faintly aware of the fact that Marsac ( _"This has to end here, Aramis."_ ) is running behind him. He pushes that thought from his mind. He needs to focus on what's really there, not the things that his sleep-deprived brain is conjuring up. He reaches for his gun, but his hands are shaking too badly for his shots to be up to his normal standards. He won't be as effective with a sword either, but swords don't have as much focus on precision as muskets do. He'll have to make do.

When Aramis catches up with Porthos, he's already found the attackers. There are four men in ragged clothes, fighting like men with nothing left to lose. Aramis knows those are the most dangerous kind. There's a Red Guard lying on the ground with a bullet buried deep in his chest and, for half a second, Aramis thinks he sees a crow pecking at the corpse. He shakes his head and it's gone, but the sensation of freezing cold remains a while longer. There's one other Red Guard trying desperately to hold off two of the attackers while Porthos fights the other two. Aramis knows that Porthos is capable of fighting two men at once, so he swoops in and rescues the Red Guard, dueling one of his attackers fiercely. The adrenaline isn't having as much of an effect as it usually does - or perhaps it is, and Aramis simply doesn't notice because he's so exhausted. The attacker is unskilled but desperate, and Aramis finds it takes much more effort than he would have expected simply to keep up.

The Red Guard next to him cries out as the attacker's sword stabs through his stomach and Aramis feels a surge of irritation at the man's incompetence. He slides in and takes his place seamlessly, fighting two at once. He's not sure how long he can keep that up, but it's not fair to dump another attacker on Porthos when he's already holding off two of them. Aramis will make do.

Porthos manages to throw one of his attackers into the wall, which he hits with a sickening crack. Aramis gets in a lucky shot and is able to stab one of his attackers through the chest. His aim isn't quite as good as it normally is - he can feel the sword meet resistance with the ribs - but the man falls anyway.

"Aramis!" Porthos yells, and before Aramis can react, a sword pommel slams down into his temple.

The darkness he's been avoiding all week comes rushing in all at once, and no amount of desperation can stave it off. With no other option, Aramis accepts oblivion with open arms.

* * *

When Aramis comes to, he's lying in the Musketeer infirmary. Other than a pounding headache, he doesn't feel wounded enough to warrant that. In fact, he feels better than he has for the past week. The ragged feeling of exhaustion is still there, but it's faint. It's as if he's missed one night of sleep, not six.

"You've been out for two days," Tréville states, and Aramis sits up so fast his head spins. "At ease," Tréville adds, putting a hand on Aramis' shoulder. Aramis only relaxes marginally. He hadn't noticed Tréville's presence. If he had, he might have pretended to still be asleep. He's not quite sure how to deal with Tréville. He's been avoiding him recently, trying to lock away the ghost of Savoy before he deals with his captain.

"Two days?" he finally croaks. Tréville hands him a cup of water.

"Two days," he confirms. "The doctor said it looked like you hadn't slept in a week." Aramis stares studiously into the cup of water. Tréville sighs. "This is about Savoy, isn't it?"

"Am I allowed to leave the infirmary, sir?" Aramis asks stiffly. There's no way he can have this conversation with Tréville without breaking down entirely. He'd rather avoid that, if at all possible.

"No, goddamn it, you are not," Tréville snaps. Aramis sets his jaw. "I didn't come to you because I was waiting for you to come to me. But apparently that was a mistake. You need to talk to someone about this, Aramis."

"I'm dealing with it, sir," Aramis replies. If he stays professional, perhaps he can get through this.

Unfortunately, Tréville does not seem inclined to do the same.

"Aramis," Tréville says softly, his hand on Aramis' shoulder again. "I know what it's like to lose people. We all do. You can talk to us."

"With all due respect, you have no idea what Savoy was like," Aramis retorts. Normally, he wouldn't speak to Tréville so harshly, but he's _tired_ , tired of acting normal and fighting his own memories and putting up with sympathy from people who have no idea what they're talking about.

"I know," Tréville replies simply. "And I know that I am the reason you were in that situation, and believe me, I feel that guilt every day. There is not a day that I don't regret what happened to those twenty Musketeers."

"Twenty-one," Aramis corrects softly, because Marsac died there too, he just didn't know it yet.

 _"Better to die a Musketeer than live like a dog."_

"And I fought those orders," Tréville adds. "I would not have put you in that sort of danger if I didn't know that it was the only way. In the end, I knew that the loss of twenty Musketeers was least casualties we could possibly have. The only other option was war with Savoy, and you know as well as I do that many more would have ended up dead if we went to war. Losing Savoy to the Spanish would have been an inconceivable blow."

The words make sense, but Aramis still remembers the icy cold of the forest. The screams of his fallen brothers still echo in his ears. His head still throbs with pain, and even though he knows it's from the hit he took at the palace, a part of his brain whispers to him that it's from that musket stock back in Savoy, that he's lying in that bloody, snowy forest even now.

"I would have done anything else if I could, but it's as you said," Tréville finishes. "We're soldiers. We follow our orders, no matter where they lead, even to death."

"I can't," Aramis whispers. Tréville seems somewhat surprised that he's spoken, as is Aramis himself. But the words are true. "I can't, not anymore."

"You can't what, Aramis?" Tréville asks quietly.

"I can't follow your _damn orders_ ," Aramis snaps, fury rising in him. "You have no idea- You've never been in a place like Savoy. You can't even imagine it. I was left in a forest with _twenty dead Musketeers_. Do you even have any _idea_ -" Aramis' hands are shaking. "I can't do this anymore. I can't-" The words stick in his throat for half a second, but Aramis forces them out. "I can't be a Musketeer anymore."

"I don't believe that," Tréville says softly, and Aramis is filled with unbelievable fury, because _what does Tréville know? How can he have any idea- He doesn't have any idea-_

"Then maybe I'll desert," Aramis snaps, his voice shaking. Part of him knows that Tréville is right, that he doesn't mean the words coming out of his mouth, that they're simply fueled by anger and fear and exhaustion. But most of him is ruled by the anger and the fear and the exhaustion and he just can't _take_ it anymore. "Maybe I'll just leave, like Marsac did."

 _"Better to die a Musketeer than live like a dog."_

"Aramis," Tréville says gently, and Aramis can feel tears on his cheeks. He wonders when he started crying. Abruptly, the fury rushes out, leaving Aramis feeling empty.

"They won't let me go," he whispers, his voice breaking halfway through the sentence. "They won't let me go."

"I think you need to let them go," Tréville says softly, and Aramis draws in a shuddering breath and _sobs_. Tréville wraps his arms around Aramis and lets him fall apart in his embrace, lets him cry on Tréville's shoulder, and, when he's ready, holds him as he puts himself back together again.

* * *

D'Artagnan is watching Aramis as if he's about to burst in to tears, or potentially drop dead.

Athos and Porthos have similar expressions on their faces, if somewhat more subtle. Aramis can't exactly blame them. Tréville gave him a week off, most of which he spent either sleeping or praying. He needed the solitude to work through his thoughts and catch up on the massive amount of sleep he missed. Because of that, he spent very little time with Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan, and all that they knew about his condition was whatever secondhand information Tréville passed on to them. But now the three of them have just gotten back from duty at the palace, which Aramis will restart tomorrow, and solitude doesn't seem quite so important anymore.

"I'm alright, _mes amis_ ," Aramis says, and he's immediately faced by three dubious expressions. "I'm going to be alright," he corrects. "I'm dealing with things better than I was."

"Is there anything we can do to help?" d'Artagnan asks. Aramis smiles. It feels a little strange, almost like his facial muscles are unused to the motion. He supposes he's had little enough to smile about for the past week.

"Normalcy would be nice," Aramis replies. "Honestly, I'm fine. You don't need to look at me as if I've just told you I have a month to live."

"Shall we go to the Wren together, then?" Athos asks. Aramis has never known him to sound tentative, but he just barely does.

"That sounds wonderful," Aramis replies. "But I have something I need to do first."

"D'you want one of us to come with you?" Porthos asks. Aramis shakes his head.

"I think I need to do this alone."

The graveyard that entombs the bodies of fallen Musketeers is large. It has to be, with a regiment that big. Still, it's not difficult to find Marsac's grave, out at the very edge. The fact that he was buried there at all is unusual; deserters are normally not given such an honor. But Aramis had asked, and Tréville had agreed.

 _"Better to die a Musketeer than live like a dog."_

"You died a Musketeer, my friend," Aramis says, kneeling in front of Marsac's grave. There are no graves for the twenty Musketeers who died in Savoy, but Tréville has put up a small marker with the names written on it. Marsac's name is missing, but the marker stands over his grave, so he remains with his brothers.

An unseasonably cool breeze ruffles Aramis' hair, and for a second, he thinks of the forest in Savoy. But he's not there. He escaped. He lived. He will not let that go to waste.

"You will not be forgotten," Aramis tells the marker. "But I cannot grieve for you forever." Aramis splays a hand across the ground, curling his fingers in the soft soil. "Goodbye, my brothers."

For a second, he thinks he hears a whisper on the wind, but when he turns around, there's no one there.

"You good?" Porthos asks when Aramis returns to the garrison. Aramis takes a deep breath, lets it out.

He's alive. He survived.

"I am."


End file.
